


Bitte Bitte

by tiger_moran



Series: Song lyrics shuffle prompt fics [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Affection, BDSM, Begging, Caning, Dom/sub, Foreign Language, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 17:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4229952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long ago Moran swore that he would never again beg, never plead and never truly serve anyone but himself, but he was wrong.</p><p>(A song lyrics shuffle prompt fic, this one based on Tanzwut's 'Bitte Bitte'. See notes for more details)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitte Bitte

    Years ago Sebastian Moran swore that that he would never beg or plead ever again; that all that was done with once he grew big enough to begin to fight back. Years ago also he swore that he would be nobody’s slave; never again someone’s whipping boy, and that while he might one day again bow his head and pretend to toe the line, in truth from that point on he would only ever truly serve himself.

     But now he cannot remember any of this, too focused as he is on his master’s voice; his master’s touch; his scent; each word; every caress, and on every bite of the cane into his bare skin.

  _“Please!”_ A cry that comes from between dry lips, a half-strangled gasp of something that is part pain and part pleasure.

     The professor stands over him, looking down at this naked man on his knees before him.  He clasps the cane in his right hand with its tip resting against his left palm, holding it nonchalantly. “Sebastian,” he says, his tone perfectly calm and composed, though perhaps a tad weary in the manner of a teacher who has been over this particular matter with a recalcitrant pupil many times already. “Auf Deutsch, bitte.”

     Though Moran’s head remains bowed he darts his gaze up to meet the professor’s very briefly – so briefly that it barely happens at all. “Bitte,” he pants, his chest heaving. “Bitte… bitte lass mich…” His gazes drifts away; he is so perilously close to being entirely lost in a world with no spoken languages; no words; just pure sensation. 

     Moriarty gently presses the tip of the cane beneath Moran’s chin and tilts his head up. “Ja?” he queries.

     Chest still heaving, Moran licks his dry lips as he struggles to formulate an answer to a question he can barely recall. “Bitte, lass mich… _oh._ ”A shiver coursing through him as the professor, still with almost sadistic tenderness, trails the tip of the cane down the side of his throat; down over his collarbone; down further still across his chest. “Bitte!” he screws his eyes tightly shut. “Lass mich dein sklave sein!”

     And the answer to this request comes not in words, for Moran could likely not understand them any longer regardless of the language used, but in the professor drawing him close; in Moriarty’s hands upon him, then in what seems to him to be a soundless explosion of pleasure that is almost agonising in its intensity, then… sweet blissful nothing.

      He comes half to his senses again some minutes later, still held in the professor’s arms, feeling pleasantly exhausted in the aftermath of his orgasm, as if he might never have the energy to move again.  This is of no concern to him given how comfortable he feels, nor is the thought somewhere very deep down of what he pledged to himself long ago. That he was wrong in regard to those promises he made to himself hardly matters at all. 

    “My sweet boy.” Moriarty strokes Moran’s hair gently.

    “Professor.” Moran’s eyes remain closed; he feels no pressing need to open them.

    He is in thrall to the professor, bound to him by love and lust; longing and loyalty, but that is right; that much seems fitting.

   “Ich schenk dir mich,” Moran says. He opens his eyes to glance up at the professor’s face.

    Moriarty smiles – pleased; perhaps a little amused also by Moran’s continued use of a language not native to him - and continues to caress his companion’s hair. “Hush now.”

    Moran lets his eyes slip closed again and nestles more tightly against Moriarty’s shoulder. There are more words he could say but even with the comparative freedom of a different language; even in this peaceful haze where his tongue may be loosened more than usual, still he cannot and does not utter them. Even so he knows they hover between them, not given voice, but _there_.

_Ich liebe dich._

**Author's Note:**

> I used shuffle to randomly select songs and then tried to write a fic based on the lyrics of each.  
> Quotes from Tanzwut - Bitte Bitte with approximate translations:
> 
> "Bitte, Bitte lass mich.. oh  
> Lass mich dein Sklave sein"  
> (Please, please let me, oh  
> Let me be your slave)
> 
> "Ich schenk dir mich."  
> (I give you me [as a gift])
> 
> "Ich liebe dich"  
> (I love you)


End file.
